Awry 

I'm not supposed to be here.

The government scientists threw 
a kitten
into the New York sewer's
rat den.
The rats took the kitten in.
The kitten tongued fleas and ticks
from the rat's fur,
drank milk from the rat's teet.
The rats taught it to hunt
and hide
while the scientists looked on,
waited for the kitten to notice 
it wasn't a rat.

I'm not supposed to be here.

The kitten chewed its fur 
to rat-like stubble.
Ripped its tail bald.
Rolled in the dirt 
till it's rat-gray.
It learned to keep its claws 
partially sheathed,
not to climb
rodent-proof walls.

I'm not supposed to be here.

The rats squeal at feline claws
which occasionally etch their skin.
The kitten hisses at rodent incisors
which occasionally nip its ear.
It licks its fur,
waits
for this experiment
to end.

I'm not supposed to be here

but the scientists died
or went out to play.




Falling Pictures 

Last week, Daddy's picture fell
        off the wall.
Grams just sat there
        in her chair,
scared to see
        if it landed
                face up or
                        face down.
I picked it up, put it back
on the wall.
Smiling, 
I said we were in for luck,
        it had been face up.
No need for Grams and Momma
to know the truth;
it'd just worry them -- 
        especially when Daddy
        was late for dinner or
        when the sheriff
        knocked on the door.

But I think they knew.
I saw the accusative looks when
the sheriff said
        Daddy'd been
                at the bar;
he missed a curve
on the way home,
        went over the cliff
                in flames...
Yeah, I think they knew
that picture hadn't landed
        face up.

Today it was my picture that fell -
        face down.
And Momma and Grams,
        they both just 
        stepped  right over it
like it didn't mean
        nothing
                at all.



Aura  

He stood behind a gilded pulpit
revered
by a congregation in awe.
So close to God,
they say he shone
with the heavenly aura
painters encircled Jesus' head.
Purity personified
as he preached against
gluttony, greed, lust
every Sunday morning,
Wednesday night.
On Thursdays,
he stood by a two-lane highway,
flashed his aura at passing cars.
But none of them mentioned
a nimbus around his penis.



There's History To Consider...

the stash of Playboys and Lesbian Lovers
in the bathroom closet;
        the same room that had become
        your favorite place to fuck me
        in positions that were sometimes painful.
When I found that trove of
women licking women
you made them disappear,
then swore they never existed.

There's history to consider...
the night you gently rubbed my back,
pulled me close,
sent pond ripples through muscle
        with your teeth on my neck.
Later,
you wiped off all traces of me
stoically saying
this act didn't do much for you anymore.
By the time I could speak, 
you had no memory of your words.

There's history to consider...
The computer discs
of women screwing coke bottles,
and the nights I'd find you
bare assed in the computer chair,
the screen blackening as I grew close.

There's history to consider...
You said you didn't want to spend 
all those nights in anonymous strip clubs,
but your friends insisted.
When you came home with that
black lace glove,
I said it was an insult
and your hand stung my cheek
for not believing in you.

There's history to consider...
I said more passion; you said it doesn't exist.
I begged for romance; you said it's for novels.
I cried for support; you said I was stupid.
I asked for affection; you said I had no right
        to ask you to change.

I could hear your tears last night
when you phoned begging me to explain
why I hadn't stopped you
or even shed a tear
when anger pulled off your wedding band
and walked you out the door.
Part of me wished 
I could cry.
But there's history to consider.